


The Enchanted Journey - A Tale of Trees and True Love

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Curses, Enchanted tree, First Kiss, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Magic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fairytale fluff - John leaves his village to explore the dark, enchanted forest, and finds true love in an unexpected place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Enchanted Journey - A Tale of Trees and True Love

**Author's Note:**

> This idea had been kicking about my drafts for a while and having already covered a sickly sweet doggy AU, I thought I'd sit down and finish it. My brain continues to dissolve into schmoopy romantic nonsense. This is pure fluff, designed to melt hearts and teeth alike.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a young prince. The younger of two brothers, the prince was possessed of an incredible, relentless intelligence. It gave him wonderful abilities – he could see every detail around him, observe and know the stories contained in all that he saw. His intense curiosity and desire to know all he could was matched only by his full, gentle heart, which only his brother could see.

The prince tried to be friends with the children in the castle, tried to share his observations with them, play in their silly games, but he was clumsy and they did not wish to hear the stories he could tell. They did not find it fascinating to know how horseshoes and tools and weapons were forged, to watch the baker and the cook make deals with the farmers, to wander through the gardens and simply watch the bees flit from flower to flower. Although he was a prince, the children teased and tormented him, and as they grew older and taller and stronger, chased him and beat him and kicked him. They taunted him for his long-limbed frame, his unusual features, his ever-changing eyes, and of course, his bookishness and intelligence. His brother tried to explain that they were jealous, but the prince withdrew, locking himself away deep inside, shrouding himself in a mask and cloak of cold indifference.

The prince wished more than anything to spend his days in the great libraries and laboratories of his family’s palatial home, cataloguing and writing his observations of the world, looking for some solace from the rush of thoughts in his head and the sharp bitterness of those who would sneer, and taunt, deepen his misery and loneliness. He sought only escape.

But his family wished him to marry, paraded him before suitors from provinces far and wide, families hoping to forge alliances with that most powerful kingdom. The prince found all of them dull; their petty desires, feeble minds and shallow social conventions failing to hold the interest of his great mind. None of them could silence the constant flow of information that assaulted him in his every waking hour. He was blunt, as he always was, and the suitors and his family turned away from him in frustration. He pretended not to care, returning to his books and his experiments.

In desperation the family brought a sorcerer from a neighbouring kingdom to court the prince, with a mind almost as great as the prince’s own. The sorcerer was proud and cruel, taking pleasure in the distress of others and enjoying his position of power. There was no-one to stop him inflicting pain and sorrow on anyone he chose. The prince defied the sorcerer and rejected him, for he could not and would not love him, and the sorcerer became angry.

In his fury the sorcerer disguised himself and appeared as a mysterious stranger to the prince, promising him a life far away from his troubles, spent in the pursuit of knowledge. All he needed in return was the prince’s silver brooch, and he could give the prince all he wanted. The prince was suspicious but he couldn’t resist. He gave the sorcerer his brooch and watched in horror and fascination as the sorcerer whispered dark words into the silver. He did not know that the sorcerer wanted to burn the prince’s heart, so wrathful was he that he could not capture the prince’s heart nor tame his mind.

The sorcerer laid a powerful curse upon the brooch, and when he fastened it back onto the prince’s doublet, the prince suddenly felt stricken and began to forget himself. His wonderful mind became sluggish and clouded. His buried heart ached and pounded, and all of his bottled-up feelings rushed overwhelmingly through him. He staggered and fell to his knees, tears dimming his eyes. He looked up into the face of the stranger, now transformed to the cruel sorcerer. He merely smiled, a vicious grin baring his teeth. The sorcerer jeered at him, telling him of the curse now racing through his body. Laughter, high and screeching, echoed in the prince’s ears as the sorcerer began to disappear, his  
clothing crumpling into nothingness.

The prince fled in terror; he couldn’t let his mind grow cold and stale and he couldn’t tell his family what he had done. He stumbled to the stables, saddled a horse and clung tightly to its mane as it bore him away from his home. He began to change, his body began to twist and grow stiff and rigid as he was transformed. The horse, terrified of its rider, threw him and bolted back to the castle. He finally found his way to a clearing, deep in the forest, and fell into a deep sleep.  
When he awoke he found he was no longer a prince, but a towering white tree. He could hear all the voices of the forest, could see all the goings on of the kingdoms through his roots, but he was completely alone and could never leave the clearing.

There is only one way to break the curse. The prince must find the one with whom he falls in love, and who truly loves him in return. His love must destroy him to release him.

Despairing that anyone could ever truly love him and wish to free him, the prince passed long, lonely years in the forest. His mind remained as strong and unyielding as ever, but his tender heart gently faded, forgotten.

******

John wakes early as the sun rises over the fields near his village. Although he had lived with his family in the village for many years, they’d always been a little wary of him. He was well-liked, of course, his kind nature endearing him to the hard-working adults and scruffy children alike. But John had spent time on his own for much of his life, taking up hunting as a way to earn and escape from the chaos of home. His family had managed to hold onto their cottage through much turmoil, but barely. His father and mother were long dead, his sister gone in the night. John stayed on, nowhere else to go. His life is lonely, that of a hunter, and now, an outcast. He lives on the outskirts of the village since the griffin.

He stretches his stiff shoulder and, pulling on his boots, steps outside to watch the golden light sweep across the soft, rolling landscape of the hollow in which the village is nestled. The kingdom stretches far into the distance and somewhere beyond the reach of John’s eyes lies a magnificent castle, the home of the royal family. The old king and queen died many years ago now, shortly after the disappearance of their youngest son, so the tale goes. The eldest son has held court in the castle, directing the affairs of the kingdom from afar. He has rarely been seen in recent times; some say he is now so fat he cannot ride his horse out into the countryside, he cannot but waddle to and fro in the palace’s great halls. Some say he has all this time been searching for his lost brother, who was very dear to him. John thinks that both princes must have been so terribly lonely; the eldest left to rule and the youngest vanished forever.

The glow and warmth of the sunshine lift John’s heavy heart. He has also been alone, and he thinks back to the encounter that had irrevocably changed his life.  
On the day he had encountered the griffin, he had been travelling back from a neighbouring town, his pockets lighter than he hoped. The animals he normally hunted close to the village were becoming scarce, but the inhabitants were too frightened to try venturing into the dark forest at the western borders of their homes.

John has heard stories of the dangers in the ancient western forest all his life – deadly unicorns, griffins, spiders and all manner of evil and mysterious creatures. There is said to be a curse on one part of the forest, where no man dare to walk. There is said to be an evil presence, held within an imposing white tree which stands in the middle of a silent clearing. It is said that the tree has a kind of magic, that it has the ability to cloud the minds of men and brings all their secrets to life, causing an incurable madness. This tree is said to be the most powerful being in the forest, very valuable should anyone ever get close enough to it to bring it down, but none ever do.

The griffin had been lying injured near the fields. At first no man was brave enough to get close to it, to help it but John had approached the griffin with no fear in his heart. The griffin had stirred and tried to rise, to escape from John’s touch. John knew it was just scared, he wanted to soothe and ease its passing. He stroked its side carefully and spoke to it in a low voice, reassuring and gentle. A crowd gathered to watch incredulously as the griffin slowly succumbed to its injuries. It began to glow, bright and hot, and the villagers became terrified of its power. John tried to explain; he had read that this happens when griffins die but the villagers didn’t understand and had attacked the wounded beast. John tried to intervene and for his trouble was badly injured by the dying animal. As he lay cradling his wounded shoulder, the griffin burst into yellow and red flame, showering sparks and light over him. John felt an enormous sense of peace, as though the griffin were repaying his kindness as it passed away. When the light faded and the flames receded, the villagers watched silently, none offering aid to John. He stumbled back to his cottage to treat his wounds as best he could.

Since that day, he has been quietly shunned, those around him frightened of what power the griffin may have bestowed upon him.

John leaves his small, grey house that morning to venture into the forest. He passes through the village, and though the eyes of the commonfolk follow him none stop him as he walks towards the cursed path. He carries his bow and his axe, a blanket to sleep upon, and enough food and water for three days journey. He is not sure he intends to return. There is nothing holding him in the village anymore and he seeks something, he knows not what, to colour the grey edges of his world.

The forest is verdant, purple, blue and yellow flowers softly blooming along the path. The bright birdsong and rustle of leaves underfoot, the summer fragrance of the fresh air, these are John’s companions as he walks. He stops beside a stream and splashes himself with the cool, clear water, eating and refilling his water flagon before continuing. The sun streams through the trees above and casts shadows which dance along the ground. John walks for hours, barely noticing as the sun begins to wane.

His feet drag, his arms feel heavy and his eyes struggle to focus. He realises he has wandered so far he is no longer sure how to get back. Halting to properly take in the forest around him, his heart is sure and his hands steady. Nothing for it but to keep going, he thinks, to find some form of shelter for the night. He carries on, walking until he feels a presence all around him. It’s not evil, he doesn’t think so at least, but the forest hums with a restless energy, and he hears soft music, melodious and soothing, as he goes.  
John finds himself in a clearing and suddenly he shakes himself to awareness. He stands at the foot of a tall tree, with long, smooth branches that seem to glow and pulse with the same restless energy contained in the trees around him. He notices that the music has faded and the birds are not singing, there is no sound around him except a cool breeze that rustles through the foliage of the pale, beautiful tree in front of him. He gazes up at the tree in the dying sunlight, and notices that the leaves, at first seeming of deepest ebony, have a glow of warmth to them, and glint with mahogany embers through their spines.

Tentatively, he steps forward. He knows what he has discovered. This is the cursed, evil tree, the one which can invade a man’s mind and turn him inside out, the one which is believed more valuable than any meat, game or fish, any jewels, cloth or coin.

It would be a great prize to take to the king, if John could fell it. He would perhaps be offered a place in the king’s household, if he can find his way to the palace. He could show that he has conquered a great evil, prove his worth. The thought of having a purpose, of successfully showing that the forest can be tamed, is a tempting one.

He raises his axe as he cautiously approaches the tree. The air seems to thicken and he swallows nervously. He intends to chop into the tree but as he gets closer his axe lowers. Instead of swinging it into the tree’s slim but strong trunk, he reaches out a hand and gently rests it against the warm wood.

Instantly his mind is flooded with images and words, and he stumbles back under the onslaught. What was that? Curious, he replaces his hand on the trunk. Gradually he begins to discern a voice amongst the chaos, a deep, sonorous sound speaking directly to him. The voice is explaining, laying out John’s entire life before him – his father’s forceful treatment of his children, his mother’s gentle face, his sister’s defiance and refusal to marry except for love, the disintegration of his family home under his father’s wilful gambling, his mother’s last whispers in the dark as she faded away, his sister’s midnight disappearance, his hand on the tree. Suddenly the tree falls silent, expectantly.

“Amazing,” John murmurs, before he can stop himself.

The tree seems to consider this, it has not heard that word in many a long year. It has instead had to defend itself from hunters and woodsmen like John, who have come to destroy it, cut it down, chop it up, burn it.

John is shocked, now he knows what the tree is capable of, that it is a living being rather than a malevolent force, he cannot imagine anyone wanting to ruin it.

“People are always afraid of what they do not understand,” John says sadly.

 _People are idiots_ , the voice of the tree responds in John’s mind. John laughs, and feels a bloom of timid happiness furl through his thoughts. The feeling comes from the tree, he realises.

 _Yes,_ the tree muses to him, _you touched me._

John is taken aback, has no-one tried to touch the tree before? _No, they have only tried to hurt,_ the answer comes. He frowns, then realises he may have hurt the tree too in touching it. The smooth voice echoes in him again. _No, it did not hurt._ _Your touch was kind, even when I laid out your life for you. Not what people normally do when they get this far into the forest,_ the tree says coldly.

“Well, I’m not most people then,” replies John. No, you are not, he hears. “I can’t keep calling you ‘tree’, though,” he says. He stands up and gently grasps a low branch. “John, John Watson,” he introduces himself.

_A griffin or a satyr?_

“What? A… A griffin!” John exclaims. “How did you know that?!”

_I saw, I observed. I know a great many things, John Watson._

John laughs again, “Yes I gathered that. But what is your name? It’s customary when someone introduces themselves to give your name in return.”

 _Do not mock me,_ the tree snaps in his head.

“I was not mocking,” John murmurs, taking away his hand. Surprise and delight burst in his chest as he finds he can still hear the lovely voice replying to him.

_Oh. Well._

They lapse into silence. John sits down and rubs his hand through the grass at the foot of the tree. He looks up at the sky and sees that the sun has sunk below the woods, the day quickly turning to evening. He takes a drink and slices up some cheese and bread, then shakes out his blanket and settles down beneath the tree, gazing up at the stars beginning to glimmer in the velvety sky.

_Sherlock._

The word seeps softly into his thoughts, as though it were sighed in his ear. John sits up, a smile stealing across his face.

_My name is Sherlock._

“Sherlock,” John whispers, grinning. He stays there through the night, listening in wonder to Sherlock’s stories and telling tales of his village and his life as a hunter. Sherlock’s roots run deep, soaking up knowledge and information through the waters of the streams, the earth of the fields, the breath of wind in the air. Sherlock sees so much and yet cannot move, cannot do any more than watch as the world grows and changes around him. Every day hunters and woodsmen come closer, less and less afraid of old tales of bewitchment and madness. John realises Sherlock is lonely, like him. He curls up under his blanket and gradually falls asleep, listening to the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

The next day dawns and John wakes feeling better rested than he ever has before. The sun is bright and warm, and for the first time in a long while John is eager to start the day. He is determined to build a proper shelter and replenish his stores so that he may stay beside Sherlock for just a little longer. He does not know why he is so drawn to the beautiful tree but he knows he wants to listen to the tree, learn more about the forest. He cannot hear Sherlock’s voice today but he can feel his energy, can sense his spirit nearby, and John’s heart feels full of joy. He strokes Sherlock’s side, revelling in the warmth and life he can feel in the bark.

“I’ll return soon,” he tells Sherlock, hoping that even if he cannot hear the tree, Sherlock is listening and will hear him, then goes in search of food, water and branches to make into a shelter.

Finding plentiful fruit and nuts, John spends the rest of the day gathering supplies and manages to kill some small game birds. He collects twigs and dry grass, kindling to set a fire. John stays near to the clearing and decides not to wander too far; he want to lose himself in the forest and not be able to find his way back to his wonderful friend.

As he returns to Sherlock’s clearing, arms laden and a smile on his lips, he notices someone in the woods on the other side. John is intrigued and a little suspicious; he’d thought that he had been the first in years to recognise the tree’s spirit. He is happy that Sherlock has a new companion, but he also feels a burning jealousy settle beneath his ribs. Whoever it is, they are lurking there, a menacing shadow.

John drops his bounty and crouches low in the bushes at the edge of the clearing. He watches, eyes narrowed, as the figure moves slowly. The shadow emerges and crosses the clearing, approaching the tree. It is shrouded and John cannot see if it is a man or apparition. The shadow hovers beside Sherlock and John hears it talking to him. He shakes away the feeling of apprehension that has wrapped icy fingers around his heart and starts walking into the clearing, but then he hears the voice speaking to the tree. The voice is low and cruel, its sound harsh and threatening. John sees a blunt, heavy weapon, poised to strike at Sherlock’s very heart.

John springs into action in defence of his friend. As the intruder swings his weapon at Sherlock’s great trunk John looses his arrow. The arrow flies true and sinks into the shadow, making it scream. The noise is unearthly and John covers his ears in fear.

Suddenly he hears Sherlock’s voice again, asking the shadow questions, wanting to know who sent him. John is afraid for Sherlock, he has never heard the tree so fierce. Sherlock’s branches shake, his leaves glow and the air in the clearing grows thin and cold. A dark smoke swirls up from the ground and turns everything to blackness before John’s eyes. The figure of the intruder dissolves, leaving nothing behind but the arrow.

John wants to ask what is going on, but Sherlock falls silent. The dark smoke clears as quickly as it came, but the clearing is cold now and it has begun to rain. “Sherlock? Who was that? Where did he go?” John keeps his voice quiet, but Sherlock does not answer.

“Please, Sherlock. I… I want you to be safe. That’s all.”

John can still feel the energy radiating from the tree, but all is tinged with a deep and melancholy sorrow. The silence weighs heavily around him, causing him to shiver. John eats his meal in the wings of the tree’s low branches once more, feeling lost. He shakes out his blanket again and lays down next to Sherlock’s roots, trying to stay out of the rain. As he drifts into a fitful sleep, John’s fingers curl gently around one of the roots.

******

John wakes the following morning to find Sherlock’s branches coiled around him, the mahogany leaves providing a soft, warm bed beneath him. Somehow, Sherlock has wrapped John’s blanket around him and lifted him from the ground, sheltering him high in his reaches.

“Good morning,” John greets, chuckling. “This is pleasant, not to be soaked through! Thank you, Sherlock, truly.”

_You’re welcome, John._

“Well, it is lovely up here but, um, how do I get down?!” Sherlock chuckles and gently lowers John to the ground. As his feet find the earth John feels his heart swell again.

“Do you lift many a friend into your branches?” John giggles. His grin falters and his laughter dies away when Sherlock’s energy once again turns melancholy. It only lasts for a moment but John aches to his bones with the great sadness he has glimpsed. Sherlock shakes his branches and ruffles his leaves, swiftly covering up the sorrow.

 _I am only taking care of you as you did for me,_ Sherlock explains matter-of-factly. _I am merely following instructions gleaned from your world, isn’t that what people do? Take care of one another?_

John sighs, suddenly reminded of the fact that Sherlock is not a person. Sherlock notices the change in John’s mood but stays quiet. John stands, and strokes Sherlock’s side again. The solid feel under his palms is calming to his troubled thoughts, and he sits down on the grass leaning his back to Sherlock’s base.

  
They pass the day together, John leaving briefly to refill his water, occasionally breaking the silence to tell Sherlock this or that story or tale. Sherlock says nothing, but John can feel his quiet contentment.

As darkness falls, John stands and stretches his back. He glances up to the night sky and smiles as the stars come into view, their hearts shining brightly in the cool evening air.

 _What are you looking at, John?_ Sherlock asks.

“The stars, Sherlock. Have you never looked up at the stars?”

_Why, what do they do? What do they mean?_

John laughs, for a very intelligent, observant tree Sherlock has missed the beauty right above him!

“They shine, Sherlock,” he says softly. “My mother used to tell me that we only see stars when we have love in our hearts. Those who are cruel and evil see nothing but blackness above them and despair. But when we have love, when we share our hearts with another, the stars grow bright and shine with us.”

Sherlock seems to contemplate this, lapsing into silence again. John stows away his food and water, bow and axe, and wraps himself in his blanket again.

The branches circle around him and lift him up from the ground again. John laughs and tries not to wobble and fall as Sherlock brings him high, high up to the very top of his reach. John gazes up, the sky seems almost close enough to touch. He swaddles himself tighter in his blanket and lays back. He is happy, ridiculous as it must seem, to be happy perched at the top of an enchanted tree. He knows now that his mother’s story is true, for the stars have never shone so tenderly and so fiercely for him to see. He lets the feeling wash over him; he has fallen deeply, helplessly, in love with the soul of the tree beneath him. He sighs, feeling both absurd and content, and slowly, sleep claims him.

_Do you see the stars, John?_

John smiles, closes his eyes and lets his heart fill to bursting with a new love that he feels.

“Yes, Sherlock. I do.”

Sherlock waits until John is calm, peaceful, breathing softly. He takes in the view above him.

 _Beautiful, aren’t they?_ Sherlock whispers into the night.

******

On the third day of his adventure in the forest, John wakes to his tummy rumbling loudly. He sits up, forgetting his surroundings, and rolls to his side. Crying out in panic as he tips towards the ground, he hears Sherlock chuckling in his mind.

 _Careful, John,_ Sherlock scolds playfully.

“Well, I’m not accustomed to waking high in the air!” John snorts, as Sherlock gathers him safe in his branches and plonks him none too gently onto his rump on the ground. John rubs his behind, glaring ruefully at his friend. He hears chuckles in his mind and soon forgets to be annoyed, his silly giggles joining Sherlock’s deep, mirthful rumbles.

John’s tummy gurgles again and he clasps a hand over it.

 _Oh, it’s been doing that for hours,_ Sherlock complains. _Please deal with it!_

John mutters to himself under his breath as he gathers his stores and builds a fire, far enough away from Sherlock so as not to place him in any danger, but close enough that the smoke will ruffle his leaves.

Sulking, Sherlock ruffles his branches and lets John’s blanket fall to a crumpled heap.

“Great, thanks!” John admonishes, but there is no real displeasure to his words. He eats his food and drinks some water, then decides to explore the forest a little further.

“I want to explore,” John says, “I’ll be gone for some time, but I want to return before sundown. Any suggestions?”

Sherlock is still sulking, but he gives John directions to a waterfall nearby, where John might swim in a crystal pool. Excited, John sets off eagerly, calling his thanks to Sherlock over his shoulder as he goes.

John finds the waterfall without too much trouble and he is sure to mark his path so that he may find his way back to Sherlock again easily. The waterfall and pool are incredible, just as Sherlock described. The rocks glisten in the sunshine and the water rushes over the high cliffs, sending puffs of moisture up into the air. All the colours of the rainbow are reflected in the mist, gleaming among the green foliage of the forest canopy.

John stands and marvels at nature’s wonder for a few moments, wishing that Sherlock were here to share with him in the beauty of this spot. Shaking off his disappointment, John grins as he strips quickly and dives into the pool.

The water is cool and deep, and John splashes around exuberantly. He swims to the opposite bank and finds a flat rock underneath a stream from the falls in which to bathe. The dirt of the last two days sluices from his body and reinvigorates his muscles, easing the ache in his scarred shoulder. He spends a little time washing his clothes and lays them out in the noon sun to dry. The warm day and soothing sound of the falls make him drowsy, and he settles on his back next to his clothes. As he closes his eyes, his thoughts turn to the previous night; the stars, sitting high up in Sherlock’s branches, the sensations of joy and love he felt. He naps peacefully, thinking of Sherlock with a tender smile.

He wakes a few hours later, feeling a little cold. The sun has started to descend and John pulls on his dry clothes, setting off back to Sherlock’s clearing. When he returns,

Sherlock is silent but John knows he is glad to see him.

John eats a small meal and settles happily at the foot of his beloved tree. Sherlock’s voice is pensive when it flows gently into John’s mind.

_John._

“Yes, Sherlock?”

_Would you like to hear another story?_

“Of course!”

John sits up eagerly, awaiting the tree’s voice in his mind. If Sherlock had been a person, John thinks, this is where he would take a deep breath.

Sherlock begins, his branches fluttering as he speaks. He tells John of a prince who once lived in a grand castle many leagues from here. The prince and his elder brother were the cleverest in the land, and the younger prince was keen to explore the world around him. His family wanted him to marry, to bear children, to host balls and visit the surrounding kingdoms. The young prince had no such desire; he simply wanted to know as much as he could, reading and conducting experiments and helping the people of the kingdom find lost things. He turned away all those his family brought before him and in seeking another life, he had fallen under a powerful curse.

John has heard the story many times, but never realised it was true and that he would stumble upon the tree it described! John is thrilled, there is a way to break the curse upon his friend. He will set Sherlock free!

“I have heard this story, many times! I will set you free! You are my friend, this will break the curse!”

Sherlock’s voice is sorrowful once more, that is not enough.

“Of course it is,” John crosses his arms indignantly.

 _No, it is not. I understand John, it is too much to ask,_ says Sherlock in John's head. _All that I wish is that you will return one day and talk with me once more. I have no friends, only one._

“I will not just leave!” John says, but Sherlock pushes him away. _You must live and be happy,_ Sherlock tells him. _There is no way you can stay here and be happy._

“Why? Why must I go? I am happy here, with you! Oh Sherlock, I wish I could free you! Tell me, tell me how I might break this curse!”

 _It is impossible,_ Sherlock sighs.

“No! I refuse to believe that! You will find a way!”

 _Nobody could be that clever,_ Sherlock says forlornly.

“You could!” John exclaims, and Sherlock’s mirthless laugh almost rends him in two.

 _No, John. Let me show you,_ Sherlock murmurs.

His branches sway and push John to step back. John watches, wide-eyed, as the core of the tree begins to open to reveal a soft silver light smouldering inside. John is mesmerised and leans in to look closer. Nestled in the depths of the wood is a small brooch. It is twisted and warped but the inscription is still recognisable.

_SH._

Oh, Sherlock. John reaches out to touch it, but the core closes quickly, the light extinguished, the brooch safely concealed once more.

 _So you see John,_ Sherlock muses, _not only must I earn the love of another, my love must strike at my heart and destroy me. Only then can I be released._

John is crestfallen. He cannot, he cannot hurt, cannot kill his friend in the hopes that he will be saved, freed from his curse.

“I wish, I only wish I were braver,” John cries, “Brave so that I might take that risk!”

John slumps down at the foot of Sherlock’s trunk. Sherlock is silent again. John knows what he must do. He knows he must free the wonderful soul trapped inside the tree.  
With tears in his eyes, John picks up his axe.

_John?_

“Please, Sherlock,” John pleads softly. “I love you.”

He swings the axe true and steady into the heart of his beautiful tree. Sherlock’s name escapes his lips in a mere whisper as the axe connects with the wood, and rents a horrifying scream in John’s mind.

There is a brilliant flash of blinding light as the silver brooch at Sherlock's core shatters into a thousand pieces. John is thrown from the foot of the tree, landing on his back on the edge of the clearing. He tries to stand and collapses back onto the warm ground as the light grows and grows until he is surrounded by it. It swarms into John’s very bones and fills his heart. John closes his eyes as he is absorbed by the light.

The light wanes almost as rapidly as it had risen, and John opens his eyes to see a tall man standing in the place of the once remarkable tree. The man is pale, his hair is the mahogany of the tree’s leaves and his eyes are bright and shining. He is beautiful.

The man turns to John and John is consumed by the love he sees in the man’s eyes.

“John?”

The man speaks with Sherlock’s voice.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, and they both smile, full of joy. John rushes forward and pulls Sherlock close to his chest. Sherlock’s arms envelop him and they laugh together. John lifts his head and gazes at Sherlock, here in his arms.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Sherlock is trembling, and his words pour sweetly into John’s ear. “I love you, John.”

Sherlock’s eyes are glistening as John leans up and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. John’s breath catches in his throat and he is overwhelmed with tenderness. He pulls away and strokes Sherlock’s lovely face. Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and deep in those blue-green irises, John sees a sparkling reflection of the sky above.

“Look, Sherlock. The stars,” John breathes. “They’re shining brighter than ever.”

Sherlock tilts his head up, his smile sincere and warm. John thinks he may never again see a sight so beautiful in his life. He knows then that they will never be alone, that they will both truly know love, for all time.

**Author's Note:**

> *vomits from the schmoop*
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on tumblr](jamlockk.tumblr.com)


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